


the choirs in my head

by against_stars



Series: ruth clung to naomi [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cousland Backstory, Cousland family - Freeform, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/against_stars/pseuds/against_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's better that you've come," Lyonesse says softly, not looking at any of them. "I'm not strong enough to leave on my own."<br/>The four of them look at each other, then at her with surprise. "You know this isn't real?" Leliana asks her.<br/>"I watched this castle burn," she answers, voice flat. "Do you think I don't know a dream when I see one?"</p><p>Lyonesse Cousland, trapped in the Fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the choirs in my head

**Author's Note:**

> The Warden doesn't get a personal Fade dream to break out of, which I thought was somewhat unfair. So I wrote my own.
> 
> (minor warning for mentions of brief suicide ideation and grief. also, light mentions of the violent events of the Cousland origin.)
> 
> ( _I was looking for a breath of life, a little touch of heavenly light —)_

"One, two, three — one, two, three — Ow! Careful, not my feet!"

Leliana slips through the stone-framed door and out of the open Fade, her booted steps muffled on a thick, traditionally Ferelden rug. Alistair and Morrigan come through immediately behind her, just as quietly, and last is Zevran, slipping the heavy door closed silently behind them.

This is their Warden's dream — or nightmare, Leliana allows, thinking of Zevran's — and they need to draw her out of it.

Taking in the sight before them, it may be a greater challenge than they had been expecting.

In the hall, two men and two women sit by a fireplace, while a young woman holds a child's hands and tries to lead him through a simple set of dance steps, while he tries to simply dance on top of her shoes in the manner of a child much smaller than he.

Despite its vast size and vaulted ceiling, the hall manages to feel cozy and intimate. There are more rugs like the one under their feet, thick and lush. All four stone walls are lined with beautiful paintings, tapestries, and towering bookshelves. Several soft-looking chairs are collected in front of the enormous fireplace filling the building with warmth and golden light. The evening outside looks clear and peaceful, stars flickering serenely through the windows along the ceiling.

The young woman dancing looks so completely different from the Warden they know that she is almost an unrecognizable stranger. Lyonesse wears no dirty armor here, but a long gown, simple compared to those of the other two women in the room but clearly no less fine, with delicate embroidery at the neckline that Leliana knows would have been her own work in the real world. Instead of braided and pinned up over her head, her hair falls straight and free past her waist, half of it tied loosely back with golden thread, and it brushes her elbows with every graceful spin she takes.

Even more unfamiliar is the expression on her face. It takes a brief heartbeat moment for Leliana to recognize it as the widest, happiest grin she has ever seen Lyonesse wear — so unlike the small, quick smiles Leliana cherishes in their rarity.

Leliana can tell immediately who everyone else is at a single glance. The little boy stepping relentlessly on Lyonesse's toes is Oren, her nephew by name and more her little brother by heart, only eleven years younger than her.

Watching them fondly is a broad, solid-looking man with hair several shades darker than Lyonesse's, his elbow perched on the arm of his chair so he can rest his chin in one hand. His other hand is laced with the hand of what must be his wife Oriana — Oren's mother, Lyonesse's sister-in-law — pouring tea from a pot into a pair of painted teacups.

The older couple across from him must be Lyonesse's parents, the late teyrn and teyrna. They might have looked stern in any other moment, and surely did when called upon to do so, the teyrn with his square jaw and wide shoulders, managing to make his rich doublet look as strong as a suit of armor, and the teyrna with silvering hair, sharp cheekbones and a kind mouth, but here they sit side by side with books in their laps, their feet stretched out before them and crossed over each other in a show of such obvious affection that the gesture must have been reserved for these private family moments.

The teyrna leans forward, accepting a delicate cup from her daughter-in-law, her eyes closed with pleasure as she breathes in the steam.

"Thank you, darling," she says, sinking back against her chair, slowly so as not to disrupt her drink. From beside his wife, Fergus looks away from his son and his sister to throw her a toothy grin.

"You sure you don't want anything stronger, Mother? It's been a whisky sort of day, I thought," he teases. His smile only grows bigger when his mother opens her eyes to frown at him, a show of exaggeratedly stern disapproval.

Even from the doorway, the bright green of the teyrna's eyes is so identical to Lyonesse's that Leliana gasps softly, startled by the effect, and all attention draws immediately to the group of them clustered around the entry.

Unexpectedly, none of the dream characters react to them with hostility as others have done — in fact, they don't even look terribly surprised. The four seated adults simply stand up from their chairs, and Oren scampers over from Lyonesse to squeeze himself between his parents, peering curiously at the intruding party from around his father's waist.

Lyonesse herself is frozen in place where she was been dancing, her arms still extended where they had been wrapped around her nephew. Slowly, she lowers them, her smile fading into an unreadable look.

"Are these your friends, Lyonesse?" Oriana asks. Her voice seems to rouse Lyonesse into nodding her assent, and Oriana grants them each a polite curtsey in greeting.

"Please, come over to the fireplace," the teyrna offers, stepping away from her chair to gesture to the thick rug in front of it, "make yourselves as comfortable as you like. Lyonesse has told us all about you, I'm sure you're tired."

Beside her, Leliana can see Zevran and Alistair exchange uncertain glances. Unhesitant, she makes her way forward to the gathered family, and the others follow close behind. Lyonesse joins them, stepping beside her parents to tuck herself against her mother, who reaches up to sweep a stray lock of hair behind Lyonesse's ear.

"This is my family," Lyonesse tells them unnecessarily. "Mother, Father, this is Morrigan, Zevran, Alistair, and —"

"Oh, this one must be Leliana!" says Fergus warmly, to Leliana's surprise, coming from around Lyonesse to see her. "Little sister, she's more beautiful than you said." He took Leliana's hand in his and bowed low to kiss it, much lower than a noble of his stature would normally do for anyone other than his equal, then looks back up at her to throw her a wink. "And she did say it quite a lot."

"Were you really a bard?" asks Oren, tugging her arm to redirect her attention. "Where's your instrument? Will you play for us? Auntie says you've the loveliest voice in the world, but I don't trust her, because her singing is _terrible_ so what does she know?"

"Oren!" Oriana admonishes, curling her hands over his shoulders to tug him against her lap.

"He's not wrong," Lyonesse says wryly, scritching her fingers through Oren's hair and making him wrinkle his nose in protest. "I could be biased. Blinded by my affections. Love-dazzled."

"Oh, love," says Oren disdainfully, looking even more offended by the concept of romance than by his aunt mussing his hair, " _gross_."

"I take it your lovely sister-in-law is where you learned your Antivan," Zevran comments. The half-smile on his face is strange, almost wooden, but he continues, "A wonder your accent is so terrible, then!"

Lyonesse covers her reddening face with one hand as Oriana throws her own hands in the air, exasperated. "Maker knows I've tried," she tells him earnestly, "but she just never practices!"

Zevran sweeps Oriana's hand into his and drops a kiss on it. "My lady, I won't let her go a day without doing so again. You have my word as your countryman."

The whole scene is disconcertingly domestic in a way Leliana realizes she's never even imagined for her beloved Warden. The teasing is easy and fluid, made soft with familiarity and even softer with love.

Leliana thinks of how much bickering Lyonesse's collection of companions do — sometimes more than bickering, just flat out arguing. Alistair and Morrigan tear into one another with more teeth than dragons, and Lyonesse simply ignores it. Now Leliana wonders how much of that is because Lyonesse doesn't want to deal with it, like she had believed, and how much of it is because Lyonesse simply doesn't know how to come between a back-and-forth that isn't mutually fond.

Morrigan hangs back from the whole exchange, her scowl sharp but her eyes almost hungry, her gaze caught unwaveringly on the place where Lyonesse's mother has looped her arm around her daughter's waist. Beside her, Alistair is clearly trying to catch Leliana's eye and succeeding in making himself look almost like he needs to use the privy.

She approaches them while Zevran is teasing Oren for his own terrible accent, and Alistair immediately says, "We need to hurry and get her out of this."

Morrigan finally drags her eyes away from Lyonesse and her mother, snapping, "For once, the fool is right —"

"Thanks," Alistair interrupts mockingly.

"'Tis a _waste of time_ ," Morrigan carries on ruthlessly, "just standing here watching them fawn all over each other. The syrupy sentiment may be imaginary, but my nausea is very real."

Leliana gives her a dark look, but doesn't have the time to say anything before Zevran slips back into their midst, Lyonesse beside him and Oren bouncing after them both.

"Are you telling secrets?" he asks them, looking interested. "I want to hear one."

Lyonesse leans down to kiss his forehead, her hands on her knees, her long hair pouring over her shoulders like water. "You should go and fetch the sword your father gave you, instead," she suggests. "I'm sure Alistair would love to teach you some fancy moves to use with it!"

Oren's face lights up with delight. "Really? Do you promise? Okay, I'll be right back!" He bolts out of the room, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush.

She straightens up as they all watch him leave. "I'm going to talk to my friends for a moment, Father," she says, directing her attention back to her parents.

"Of course, pup," says the teyrn.

Lyonesse leads the others to the far side of the hall to gather beside an enormous tapestry, covered with intricate panels of forests, men with swords, and beasts on two legs. She reaches out for a moment to run her fingertips along the weave, looking distant.

"My father commissioned this to celebrate Oriana's pregnancy, for the coming baby," she murmurs. "The tale of Dane and the Werewolf. She was afraid it wouldn't be very appropriate if she had a girl, much too violent — too Ferelden, I'm sure she meant — and my mother laughed and showed her what her own father had gotten for my birth." The corners of her mouth curl up faintly. "It was of King Calenhad's triumph. A fine inspiration for any Ferelden child, whatever gender."

By the fire behind them, the teyrn and teyrna laugh at something Fergus has said, while Oriana gives him an unladylike nudge with her elbow. Fergus immediately looks contrite, giving her a kiss in penance for his joke.

"It's better that you've come," Lyonesse says softly, her eyes never leaving the tapestry. "I'm not strong enough to leave on my own."

The four of them look at each other, then at her with surprise. "You know this isn't real?" Leliana asks her. She reaches out, touches her gloved fingertips to Lyonesse's bare wrist.

"I watched this castle burn," she answers, voice flat. She doesn't take Leliana's hand, but neither does she twitch away from the touch. She simply lets it happen. "I saw Oren and Oriana dead on the floor of my brother's bedroom. I smelled nothing but smoke and my father's blood for days. Do you think I don't know a dream when I see one?"

She finally tears her gaze away from the tapestry to look at them all. Her eyes are hollow now, the warm light of the fireplace doing nothing but throwing shadows across her face. "When I sleep, I have two dreams. This, or fire — either way, it always ends."

"You cannot stay here," Morrigan says emphatically. "You know there is a Blight to stop."

"I _remember_ ," Lyonesse finally snaps.

She turns back to the hall. Oren is still gone, probably never to return, and Fergus and Oriana have disappeared too. Only her mother and father are still standing by the fireplace, their arms looped together, their eyes bright and knowingly sad.

"I know," Lyonesse says to herself, quietly, as if to steel herself. She balls her hands in the thick fabric of her skirt as she approaches her parents, leaving her four companions behind.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" asks the teyrn, though his grim face makes it clear he already knows the answer. Beside him, the teyrna looks openly concerned, reaching out to take one of Lyonesse's hands in her own.

"I'm sorry. It's important," she tells them, her voice even.

"Isn't your family important?" her mother asks gently, and Lyonesse makes a low sound like she's been wounded, closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, tears well up and spill openly down her face, no longer trying to keep them back. "More than anything," she says, her voice thick. "But you're _gone_." Her body jerks slightly with a swallowed sob. Saying the words out loud sends a flood of grief through her, buffeting her as hard as a wave from the Waking Sea.

Her father pulls her close with one arm, resting his cheek against the top of her head, and she closes her eyes against the achingly familiar gesture. "We don't have to be, pup. We're right here."

"I was so angry with you for it," she says, shoulders tense. "For being gone." The teyrn's face is soft as he pulls away slightly, to brush wisps of hair away from her eyes with one hand, the other still resting reassuringly around her shoulders. Her own hands are fisted in the front of his doublet, white at the knuckles, shaking. "I was _so angry_. You gave up, you wouldn't even let me try to save you. And you took the choice away from me."

"You're my little girl," he says simply. "It's my job to save _you_."

Lyonesse turns her face to the teyrna, releasing her father with one hand to clutch at her mother's skirts with it.

"I wanted to die with you," she whispers, trembling. The confession grates in her throat, burning shamefully. "Every day, every _single_ day, I want to be dead with you."

The teyrna cups her face, drawing her thumb across Lyonesse's cheek and disrupting the stream of tears. "You won't have to," she tells her, her lined face full of hope and a wavering, pleading smile. "Now you can live with us. My fierce girl, my brave girl. We'll all be so happy together. We'll keep you safe."

Lyonesse's mouth spasms as she tries to control herself, to hold back the sobs that threaten to wrack her, her face crumpling desperately. "I know, Mama," she says, so choked she can barely raise her voice above a whisper. Her tears pour freely over her mother's hand, staining the silk at her wrist.

Faint movement catches Leliana's eye, and she tilts her head just in time to see Alistair and Zevran both jolt forward to stop Morrigan from stepping towards the scene. "She's going to give up, you cretin," Morrigan snaps at Alistair, showing teeth. Her hand is tight around her staff.

"No, she isn't," Zevran murmurs. There's a complicated expression on his face, his eyes still on Lyonesse, something soft and sad and unfathomably understanding within them, more honest than Leliana has ever seen him.

Lyonesse says nothing more for several long heartbeats, just looking into her parents' faces, tears flooding over her face and dripping down her throat.

Her parents seem to realize they cannot keep her, and they simply move to embrace her, folding their arms around her shaking shoulders and pressing their lips against her hair. Lyonesse buries her face first against her father's shoulder, then her mother's neck, her breathing deep and controlled but wavering.

"I love you," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I was angry. And I — I forgive you, for staying behind."

"Our little girl," says her mother, unbearably tender. "We love you."

Lyonesse breathes, sharply.

The scene disappears, the warmth and light of the hall blinking away, leaving them alone and exposed in the hazy green of the Fade. Lyonesse's fine gown and slippers are gone, replaced with her Warden tunic and plates, her hair back in its usual tight braids, wound up over her bowed head like a heavy crown.

"Mama," she says suddenly, snapping her head up, her eyes flying open.

Nothing but the uneasy, empty silence of the Fade responds.

For a moment she sways in place before she crumbles under the weight of her devastation, collapsing to her knees, fingers curled into jagged helpless fists tucked against her breastplate. Her control could only last so long, not when she has never before had the time to look her grief in the eyes and let it in.

Now she lets herself feel it, the full flood of it rushing up to drown her heart and pour out of her mouth. Her ribs seize with it. She keens, she howls, she lurches forward until her forehead is nearly against the ground and then rocks back again, a wrecked, wretched thing.

Morrigan looks faintly alarmed. "This display will bring more demons on us like a beacon," she hisses to Alistair.

From her other side, Zevran slips his daggers from their sheaths. "Let them try," he says softly. Alistair pulls out his sword and unhooks his shield from its holster. Leliana readies an arrow.

In the end, nothing comes. Lyonesse staggers to her feet, her face scraped raw from wiping her tears away with leather gloves.

"Let's go," she says. Her voice is hoarse and ravaged, but steady.

**Author's Note:**

> ( _— but all the choirs in my head sang **no**_ )
> 
> come hang out with me [on tumblr](against-stars.tumblr.com), it's mostly Dragon Age and me rambling or doodling my silly OCs.


End file.
